It started with
the ocean.
A personal account of how a childhood fascination became a decades-long pattern of building what doesn't exist.
This isn't a company origin story. It's a longer, slower arc — one that started with a crashed aquarium, wound through the Army, through automotive manufacturing, through pharmaceutical process work, and eventually arrived somewhere unexpected. Avari Labs is the current chapter. It won't be the last.
The first crash — and the first invention.
My obsession with the ocean began when I was a kid, watching Jacques Cousteau on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I was amazed by the diversity of underwater life and how everything depended on the ocean. That's when it clicked for me: nature isn't something you admire from a distance — it's something you protect, improve, and learn from.
In my late teenage years, I saved every dollar I earned bussing tables and washing dishes to build my first saltwater aquarium. It was my focus at the time — it fueled me.
I did the opposite.
Everything died. Every penny I had was gone. I figured out exactly what happened and designed a filter so it wouldn't happen again. My parents believed in me enough to pay for the patent — something I could never have afforded on my own.
I was too young, too naive, and too broke to take a product to market. The world of "startups" didn't exist for me. Still, the design didn't disappear. That filter — with commercial modifications — is now the most widely used saltwater aquarium filtration system in the world.
U.S. Patent 4,851,112The Army, California,
and the first Avari.
When I graduated high school, I joined the U.S. Army as a medic. The plan was simple: serve, get to California, and go to Stanford to become a marine biologist. I was stationed at Fort Ord, right on the coast.
When I left the Army, I stayed in California — until I realized there was no way I could afford college there as a non-resident. So I did the next thing I could think of: I started a business. I serviced aquariums for people who wanted a saltwater tank but didn't want to maintain it.
I found Andvari — a Sumerian water spirit who could transform into a fish and had a magic ring that brought him fortune until Loki stole it. Andvari became Avari. It wasn't a company yet. It wasn't a technology. It was just me, trying to stay connected to the ocean any way I could.
Andvari → Avari. A water spirit, a shape-shifter, a bringer of fortune. The name was chosen in a library, for a one-person aquarium service. It has followed the work ever since.
Before the world caught up.
In the years that followed, as finances permitted, I pushed deeper into the hobby and the biology of closed aquatic systems. I ran state-of-the-art VHO fluorescent bulbs before most hobbyists knew they existed. I grew corals before coral propagation was a thing.
And then I added microalgae and rotifers — not as a science project, but as living food, the start of a natural food chain inside the tank. That changed everything. It was like flipping a switch from maintaining to growing.
I didn't realize it then, but I was years ahead of the field. Life eventually pulled me away from the hobby, but the passion stayed with me.
Years went by. I built a career, raised a family, and focused on everything life puts in front of you. But the interest in aquatic systems — and the satisfaction of solving problems inside them — never disappeared. It was just waiting for the right moment to surface again.
Returning with a manufacturing mindset.
When I came back to microalgae years later, I wasn't the same person who had left the hobby. I had spent years in automotive manufacturing and eventually in the pharmaceutical world. That experience changed how I approached problems. I didn't think like a hobbyist anymore — I thought like someone who built systems that had to run cleanly, reliably, and repeatably.
And it worked. I could grow microalgae consistently and at a quality level I was proud of. That's when I realized: I could sell this. There was a market for clean, high-quality microalgae.
But there was a problem I couldn't ignore.
This is a recurring theme in my life. People roll their eyes and say, "Just sell microalgae. Why do you always have to take it further?" It's not about perfection. It's about doing it right.
Electrolysis, a used washing machine, and proof of concept.
The more I looked for an existing solution, the more obvious it became that nothing worked the way it should.
- Filters clogged.
- Centrifuges sheared the cells.
- Chemicals changed the biology.
- Every "solution" created more problems than it solved.
So I started down an electrical path — using electrolysis in water. It wasn't a single breakthrough. It was a long series of incremental improvements. I kept refining, step by step, until I was using pure aluminum electrodes so the output would be food-safe. I studied every nuance: current density, electrode spacing, flow orientation, bubble formation, surface chemistry — details most people would ignore.
I even got a used washing machine for free from an appliance store so I could build my own centrifuge. It worked in the sense that it spun. But it confirmed what I already suspected: the mechanical approaches weren't going to get me there.
Eventually, I got through the eye of the needle and solved several issues at the same time. I came up with a concept, built it, and saw exactly what I needed to see. I had proof of concept.
The first prototype — and the moment everything changed.
I built a small prototype to solve a practical problem: how to harvest microalgae cleanly. I ran the first test in a clear carboy so I could see exactly what was happening. I wasn't trying to prove anything — I just wanted visibility.
The algae didn't just drift or settle. It moved — deliberately, cleanly, and in a way that didn't line up with gravity, flow rate, or anything mechanical. It formed a distinct zone, almost like it knew where to go. And it stayed there. No pressure. No shear. No chemicals. No filter.
I watched it for a long time because I assumed I was misinterpreting it. I changed the flow. I changed the orientation. I changed the lighting. The behavior stayed the same. It wasn't turbulence. It wasn't settling. It wasn't flocculation. It wasn't anything I had seen in all my years working with closed aquatic systems.
That moment didn't give me the answer. But it told me the answer existed. And that changed everything.
A direction, not a conclusion.
As I kept testing, it became clear that the behavior I was seeing wasn't specific to microalgae. Other materials behaved the same way. Different densities, different particle types, different chemistries — the pattern held. The problem I thought I was solving turned out to be part of a much larger, more universal one.
I want to be clear about what I have — and what I don't.
- The behavior is real.
- The effect is repeatable.
- The potential applications extend far beyond microalgae.
- The design is not finished. The behaviors are not fully proven.
- The next patent application has started.
It started as a tool. It might become a platform. But that part of the story hasn't been written yet. What I have is something different — something I haven't seen before in any mechanical, chemical, or electrical separation method I've worked with.
This isn't about perfection. It's just a matter of doing it right.
Invitation to the reader.
The work is still unfolding. The design needs to be refined. The behaviors need to be fully proven. The physics need to be fully mapped.
If you've read this far, you already understand the pattern: I follow the problem. I build what doesn't exist. I keep going until the path is resolved.
And now the path is bigger than one person.
If you see something in this — a question, a possibility, a challenge, or a way forward — then you're already part of the story. The next chapter isn't written yet, and it won't be written alone.